


In This Depression

by badbastion



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester Friendship, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 21:39:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2667251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/badbastion/pseuds/badbastion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I started writing this after “Goodbye Stranger,” and just finished it. Season 8 was Season 8, with all its flaws and grace notes, but I always wished they’d explore Dean’s depression, and they never really dealt with it. So I did, for just a little while.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Depression

_And I've always been strong, but I've never felt so weak  
And all my prayers have gone for nothing  
I've been without love, but never forsaken  
Now the morning sun, the morning sun is breaking_  
\--Bruce Springsteen, [This Depression](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EEiynKZtvRM)

 

Dean sits in the car, bag of fast food in his hands. It smells great, really. No onions, but great. He glances at the burger joint, interior bright and full of people, then decides he doesn't need onions this time.

"Did you get the ketchup?" Sam asks, back at the motel. He's typing away diligently and he barely looks up when Dean passes by, digging in the bag for Sam's turkey burger. When he's at the bottom of the bag and no ketchup, Dean gives Sam a hard clap on the shoulder. "Maybe next time, champ."

***

The town they've landed in is surprisingly populated, for such a small speck on the map. Fruit and vegetable stalls line the sidewalks and women in light dresses and sunglasses chat with the sellers. Dean lets Sam part the sea of townsfolk and rides his wake for a few blocks until it thins out. He takes Sam's side when they turn south at an intersection and into shade.

"So this guy might be able to help us out?" he asks. His lips twist up crooked, a skeptic's sneer as they approach the storefront to Hal's Happy Harvests.

"I told you," Sam says, murmuring as if the man himself could hear them from inside. "Garth called last night--"

"Garth," Dean says, rolling his eyes. Sam gives him a similar eye-roll, then they have a brief stare-off at the door.

"I'll wait out here," Dean says.

"Right. I'll be out soon."

The bench is one of those wooden ones that are scattered around town squares, their backs covered with faded ads for Social Security attorneys, realtors, and insurance salesmen. These same signs are on these same benches all across the country, and they’re so far away from the reality of his life that he barely registers them. He scans the streets, still enough foot traffic to keep him aware of it. He sees a pair of good-looking young women, and his eyes slide past them to an elderly man peering into a shop window. He sees a little kid pulling on her dad's hand. He sees a broad back in a black coat, head covered in a dark cap.

There's a chipped mural on the brick wall across the street. He wipes his hands on his jeans. They are empty of metal or wood or bone or glass. They are empty.

***

It's two days later that Sam brings it up.

"So... Dean," he says, sitting beside Dean on the edge of his motel bed. He has that look on his face, the one Dean's not sure he knows he uses, and Dean's not going to tell him about. Sam is still taller, even when seated, but some configuration of his forehead and wide, sincere eyes make it look like he's looking up at Dean. Like Sam’s still Dean’s kid brother, and Dean’s not allowed to get mad at Sam for anything.

Dean looks away and back down at his hands, where he'd been sewing up a rip in one of Sam's good shirts.

"Benny was a really great guy, wasn't he? Had to be, if you stuck with him for so long... " Sam clears his throat and pauses.

"I wish I'd... " Sam says, and Dean cuts him off.

"Benny didn't belong here," he says, and he pulls the thread taut, bites through it, and drops Sam's shirt on the bed.

"I'm going for a pizza," he says, shrugging his jacket on. "You want anything else?"

"No," Sam says, and Dean looks over his shoulder to see Sam fingering the mend in the shirt, his face tight and mournful. He starts for the door before Sam can catch him watching.

Four blocks later he has to pull over and park; there's a giant hand clenching his guts. He can barely breathe. He feels his eyes go wet, drops his head to the steering wheel and snarls through gritted teeth.

Benny didn't belong here. He’d said so himself. A drop of water hits the leg of his jeans, soaks through. Another drop, wicked up until there’s barely a dark spot to signify it was there. Useless, that's what Dean is, useless and so goddamned stupid.

A deep breath, nostrils flaring. Another. He can't allow himself to feel this out of control. His stomach aches, deep in the pit of him.

Blowing out a hard, exasperated breath _(I'm not this weak)_ Dean scrubs his hands briskly over his cheeks, then up into his hair.

The pizza place doesn't have drive-thru. He gets Tex-Mex instead.

***

It's not that he's constantly thinking about them. He tries his best not to. Castiel, gone again. Kevin, disappeared out from under Dean's eyes. Benny. _Benny_. Saved Sammy. And Bobby, that wound almost scarred over, ripped right open again. 

They pass into his thoughts; he pushes them right out. There's no time to grieve, no time to punish yourself, no time to roll _what-ifs_ over and over in your mind until they're smooth as pebbles, and the divots they've made in your brainpan spell out a thousand _then_ s. He's been down that road, living a half-happy half-life with Lisa and Ben, and it's no way to live.

But what if he had known Castiel would disappear? Could he have convinced him to stay?

No. Maybe. No.

Dean grinds his teeth, flexing his hands on the steering wheel, physical stimuli to kick his brain into the correct gear. He misses the metal bite of the ring on his finger.

"What's up?" Sam asks, looking away from his newspaper, yellow fields flying by in a blur beyond his face.

Dean shakes his head. "When's my next turn-off?" he asks casually, knowing full well where it is.

Sam eyes him. There’s no real dishonesty here. All that's left to it is whether Sam decides to push him or not.

It's kind of a surprise when Sam says, "About 20 more miles. Off-ramp to I-30 West."

Dean nods. His shoulders are stiff as rocks.

***

It’s at a rest stop that Sam hops up onto the table beside him, arm close enough to touch if Dean leans an inch to the right. The noise and wind of the highway buffet them, give them some semblance of privacy here where parents shepherd their children into the restrooms.

They both face the Impala, sun glinting off the chrome grill. Sam’s not saying anything, and Dean relaxes tight shoulders, lets a little of the sunlight in, breathes in the dry air familiar with exhaust and dust. He’s got his car, he’s got his brother, long legs folded up onto the seat of the park bench, the knee of his jeans thin and ready to tear. In the long moments of welcome silence he can smell Sam, his sweat and shampoo and unwashed shirt, and he can taste the last remnants of the chocolate bar he’s just finished. 

Maybe this can be enough.


End file.
